State of Affairs
by coolbyrne
Summary: Flirting. Espionage. Violence. Dry Humour. Just your standard James Bond story.


TITLE: State of Affairs

AUTHOR: coolbyrne

RATING: T

SUMMARY: Flirting. Espionage. Violence. Dry Humour. Just your standard James Bond story.

A/N: I filled in the Time magazine "Choose Your Bond Dream Cast", and when someone saw I had chosen Sasha Alexander as the Bond Girl, they asked me to write a story. Here it is! (My choice for M was Idris Elba, and my choice for the villain was Tilda Swinton.)

…..

As a man trained to notice everything, what he took notice of most were her eyes. Even from a distance, they were arresting. Hazel? Green? It seemed as if flecks of gold caught the light, making them sparkle and sharpen. And yet, there was a natural warmth that drew him in. The curve of her body, a languid 'S' that curled from her collarbone to her calves, only enhanced the invitation. He smirked at her choice of clothing. The RSVP stated the event as a 'Black & White' party, and most women went with the dependable yet staid little black dress. Most, but not her. She was a vision in crisp white, and he wondered how many pin pricks were endured in order to complete the intricate beadwork that adorned the bodice. It was a mesmerizing journey that weaved its way down the dress until it met the enticing slit up the left side, a cut that was currently showcasing exactly what it intended. She was sitting at the bar, right leg demurely crossed over the left, and the shimmering material parted to mid-thigh. He caught himself wetting his lips, and he chuckled.

"Has anyone told you in the last five minutes how absolutely stunning you are?"

She didn't turn her head. "Has that line ever worked?"

"No," he said, "but I'm hoping that if I keep at it, one day my persistence will pay off."

This got a poorly concealed smile in response. She flicked her eyes over him, giving him a tenth of the time his appraisal had given her. He took her glance at the chair as an invitation to sit, but thought it best to make sure.

"May I?"

"Of course."

He slid into the seat and extended his hand. "Bond. James Bond."

Her mouth twitched again. "Hill," she replied, accepting his gesture. "Alex Hill."

He blinked twice and a soft laugh escaped his lips. "Agent Hill."

"Yes. Ah, you were expecting a man." It was a statement, not a question. It hung between them for a moment before she let him off the hook by saying, "You're early."

"I like to come prepared. Get the lay of the land."

She smirked at his double entendre and shook her head. "And how is the terrain, Mr. Bond?"

"Please, call me 'James'. As for the terrain, it's a bit rocky at first, but it offers a wonderful view." He signalled the bartender. "Vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. And whatever the lady's having." The bartender nodded his understanding and retreated. Bond turned his attention back to the American. "So, Agent Hill, tell me about yourself."

"Well," she began slowly, "Most people call me 'Alex'." He looked off to the side and grinned. "Been in the Intelligence community for almost 2 decades. I like long walks along the beach and drinking wine by the fire."

His grin grew into a full blown smile. "Mr. Hill's a very lucky man." When he saw her raise an eyebrow, he bowed his head. "My apologies. Mrs. Hill's a very lucky woman."

"Very good, Mr. Bond," she praised, and seeing his feigned scowl, corrected herself. "James. Not a dinosaur after all." Her eyes roamed his face. "You're not disappointed we won't be sleeping together?"

He shrugged. "Will Mrs. Hill mind?"

"Oh," she sighed dramatically, "just when I was starting to like you." Though her words were accusing, her tone was light. "What will Mrs. Bond say?" She quickly mirrored his earlier pose and bowed her head, amber waves brushing against her cheek. "My apologies. What will Mr. Bond say?"

"Well played," he nodded. "Fortunately, there are neither."

"Mmmmm. I suppose in the interest of full disclosure, I should confess there are neither for me. Either."

He made a show of checking his watch. "Damn. Now I wish I _had_ shown up earlier."

The agent laughed. "Now, _I_ know why your boss requested a personal favour from me." His eyes playfully narrowed, encouraging her to continue. "He asked me to keep an eye on you. To make sure you don't, 'cock it up', as he so eloquently put it. The way he had your name and 'cock' together in the same sentence made me wonder if it was a testament to your character."

"M," he muttered.

She gave him a consoling pat on the arm. "Don't worry, I'll tell him it's your way of being charming. And if your file is anything to go by, I have no doubt someone else's 'cocking it up' is your way of getting the job done."

"Why, Agent Hill, are you flirting with me?"

She lifted his wrist and looked down at his watch. "Look at the time."

Bond chuckled, but his demeanor quickly turned serious. "Have you seen him yet?"

"No," she answered. "But according to the intel, he's not due for another 15 minutes."

"And you trust the source?"

"As far as I trust any source, which is to say, just slightly more than 'I think so'."

There was something in her tone that caught his attention. "You don't like the idea of working with an outside agency."

"Do you play well with others, James? I mean, other than women?" She shook her head, softening her words. "No, it's not that. I'm not a big fan of having so many cooks in the kitchen, even when it's only my agency."

"You would have preferred an extraction mission." He glanced around the room. "If it means anything, so would I."

"Trouble is, that wouldn't have worked and I get that. You need the information and I need the identity of the man he's giving the information to. Sources said the courier would never have given us the name. So here we are."

"Still, I don't like it," Bond said. "In the open like this, there's too many opportunities for surprises. Speaking of..."

His voice lowered, and she saw his eyes turn steely blue. "What is it?" she asked softly, feigning nonchalantness.

"Does the name Anatoliy Tutov ring any bells?"

"Bells?" she repeated. "Anatoliy Tutov sets off alarms. He's been one of Interpol's most wanted for over a decade. He hasn't been seen for years."

"Most people think he's dead, and that his criminal business is really run by Dmitriyev Ilyich." He paused for effect. "The man who just walked in."

"What?" she quietly exclaimed.

Despite the complications this added to their mission, he couldn't help but smile, watching her fight the impulse to swing around and see for herself. She knew it would draw attention, so she kept her eyes firmly forward, despite her raging curiosity. He shifted in his seat, leaning into her. "The plan stays the same," he whispered into her ear. "It's just one more person."

"And however many henchmen he's brought with him."

"A wise man once said, 'Never tell me the odds'."

Laughing now, she seemed to marvel at his audacity. "Han Solo? You're quoting Han Solo?"

He was about to respond when he saw the Russian jog up the stairs. "He's on the move."

She checked the time. "The meeting point is in 914, but not for another 8 minutes." She turned in her seat and leaned back against the bar. As if speaking of nothing more than the weather, she continued. "When I was in the Secret Service, we had a lot of presidential parties here. There are only two ways up: the stairs that wind around the room, and the elevator. The entire building was built like a wheel, with the hallways acting as spokes. Each hallway has two rooms on either side, and there are 5 hallways per floor."

He watched her lips as she relayed the information, and willed his eyes upward. The slight wink told him he was caught. Back to business, he said, "You're sure there are only two ways up and down?"

"Unless he's somehow hidden over 100 feet of rope under his shirt, I don't think he'll try to jump out any of the windows at the end of each hall. And if he has the ability to fly, well, all the power to him." Brushing back her hair, she casually informed him, "There's the courier."

"Right," Bond said, finishing his drink. "We'll give him a few minutes, then follow."

She nodded her agreement. "You take the stairs and I'll take the elevator."

He pursed his lips in amusement. "Why don't you take the stairs and I'll take the elevator?"

"Nine flights of stairs in these heels, James?" she scoffed lightly. "I don't think so." She gracefully slipped off her seat. "I'll meet you there."

He waited until she was in the elevator before making his way towards the stairs. Though her mode of transportation was quicker, if she was smart - and nothing about her seemed to indicate otherwise - he knew she'd stop on the eighth floor to jam the elevator. Taking the stairs two at a time, even as cautious as he was, he knew he'd beat her to it.

Sure enough, his arrival on the ninth floor was greeted by silence, though he scanned the area not just for her, but for any unwelcome presence. The quietness didn't calm him; if anything, it only put him on higher alert. He edged towards the far hallway, cautious and tentative, eyes always moving, gun at the ready. His back brushed against the wall and out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Even in light of the situation, he couldn't help but admire her as she came to the top of the stairs. His eyes glanced down and his eyebrow went up. She quietly moved to join him, and at once he understood the removal of her shoes.

"Remind me that I left my heels jammed in the elevator door on the eighth floor."

"Remind me to ask where you were hiding that gun." He grinned and jerked his head towards the end of the hall. "914 is the last one on the right."

"These suites are big," she warned. "They use them for corporate functions and long-winded seminars. Lots of room for shadows."

"Understood."

In tandem, the pair glided down the hall, Bond trusting the woman to cover him from behind. Arriving at the open door, he quickly stepped to the other side, and the agents took a moment to silently co-ordinate their movements. Under his cover, she slid inside the room, crossing in front of his watchful gaze, and he followed suit. They both crouched, giving themselves time to let their eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. He swore quietly under his breath; there wasn't a single light to be had, except for the slivers of moon that cut through windows spaced five feet apart.

"Shadows indeed," he whispered.

As it turned out, they didn't need illumination to see the gunfire. In the far corner, a flash lit up the room, and the muzzled sound of a silencer whistled in the air. The two agents stood, and a ribbon of moonlight cut across Bond's face. It was just enough to get the assassin's attention. The Russian turned in their direction, and in a split second, a decision was made. A shot was fired, and Bond found himself thrown to the floor. Three more shots rang out. He immediately touched his chest and was relieved to find everything in one piece. A light came on suddenly and he squinted in the newfound brightness, holding his weapon out in defense.

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit, fuck!" A white blur moved past him and he clamoured to his feet to follow. "Goddamn it!" Hill swore angrily as she stood over the lifeless body of the courier. "Not my man," she informed Bond. "And not alive."

Bond reached down and patted the body. "What a fucking surprise - the USB stick is gone. And so is Ilyich." He turned to her and accused, "You didn't mention another way out of the room."

"The dumbwaiter," she said. "How was I supposed to know he'd try to squeeze a 6 foot frame into a 4 foot… a 4 foot… shit…"

He caught her just before she hit the floor. A dark red stain spread across her right shoulder. "You've been shot."

"Thank you, Dr. Bond," she groaned. "It goes right to the wine cellar. The dumbwaiter. He probably doesn't… doesn't know." She winced at the effort to speak. "Believe me when I tell you, there is only one way in or out of that cellar. You can catch up to him if you go right now." He looked down at her, trying to access the injury and the proper course of action. "You," she repeated firmly. "Go. Now. Don't cock it up."

Despite the severity of the moment, his mouth twitched and he kissed her forehead. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back."

…..

Though the building was modern by Bond's standards, the cellar reeked of heritage. The heavy oak door looked to be hundreds of years old, marred by the modern glint of a Mastercraft padlock. Bond silently apologized as he bent the hasp off the frame with one solid kick. Immediately, he crouched down, half expecting gunfire. When none came, he cautiously reached a hand up to pull the light cord. Again, he was met with silence. Standing, he squinted in the faint light given out by the bare bulb, searching out the square door that would identify the dumbwaiter. Pleased to find it closed, his ears strained for any sound. Though none came from the room, he clearly heard pulley wheels protesting the descent of a load too big for its capacity. He hid behind several rows of wine racks, the oak door to his right and the dumbwaiter directly ahead, and quietly waited.

The square door squeaked on its hinges as it was slowly pushed open and the Russian quickly spilled out of the container. Bond watched as he rolled to a crouching position, and noticed his hand pressing into his thigh. Undeterred, he quickly found the exit, and Bond quietly praised him for his survival instincts.

As Ilyich made a move for the door, Bond called out, "I wouldn't do that if I were you." The Russian froze. "I just want the information," he told him. "If I have to kill you to get it, I will." When there was no response, he said, "Though by the looks of things, you might bleed out first. Femoral artery? I must compliment her on her shot."

"_Pizda_," Ilyich spat, clutching at the wound.

"Better not let her hear you say that, Dmitriyev. I don't think she's the kind of woman who would take too kindly to being called a-."

"Fuck her," Ilyich wheezed in a heavy accent. "And fuck you."

Before Bond could reply, he heard a pained groan and the sound of wood scraping on granite. He realized Ilyich's last ditch escape plan just in time to avoid the wine shelves that toppled over like dominoes. The sound of dozens of bottles smashing to the floor resonated through the small room, and Bond reflexively reached out to save one. With the bottle in one hand and his gun in the other, he called out one last time. "Dmitriyev!"

The Russian slowly turned, three steps from the door. He tried to raise his own gun, but it was as if the weight was too much, and it fell to the floor. He soon followed, his knees landing with a sickening crunch on the cold granite. His face went ashen and his eyes glazed over. Bond leaned against the wall and lowered his weapon. Glancing at the bottle in his hand, he asked the dying man, "I don't suppose you have a corkscrew on you?"

…..

She cut a forlorn image, sitting alone in the corner. EMTs and law enforcement from every agency imaginable had already come and gone, leaving her patched up and looking a little lost. And yet, when she looked up and met his gaze, he was reminded of what drew him to her in the first place.

"Has anyone told you in the last five minutes how absolutely stunning you are?"

She threw her head back and laughed. "You know something? I think your persistence has finally paid off."

"I knew it," he smiled. "I brought wine to celebrate. And your shoes."

"Oh, good," she replied. "It's almost time for Cinderella to leave the ball."

He pulled up a chair and sat beside her. "Does that mean I'm Prince Charming?" Looking off to the side, he seemed to like the idea. "Hmmmm." Ignoring her feigned look of disapproval, he held out the wine bottle. "In my haste to find a corkscrew, I forgot the glasses."

"That's a Chateau Latour 1959," she pointed out. "You stole that from the wine cellar."

He pretended to be offended. "I appropriated it from the wine cellar."

"That means the same thing." She looked around, even though they were the only two in the room. "That bottle's almost $3000," she whispered.

Popping the cork, he inhaled the bouquet. "And worth every penny." Still she hesitated, and he shrugged. "Look at it this way - I saved it from a horrible fate. For all anyone knows, it was one of the bottles destroyed by a despicable Russian who called you a very bad name."

Her eyes narrowed. "What did he call me?"

"Listen, he's dead. There's no reason to give him another minute of your time."

"He called me a _pizda_, didn't he?" She grabbed the wine out of his hand. "_Ublyudok_! I hope he died a painful death." She punctuated her declaration by drinking right from the bottle.

He chuckled and took the wine back. "How about we drink to life instead?" Leaning into her, he quietly said, "You saved mine. Thank you."

Glancing down at the bandage on her arm, she said, "Well, based on his aim, I really only saved you from a non-life threatening graze. But, you're welcome."

"All the same..." He brought the bottle up to his lips. Closing his eyes, he murmured his appreciation. "Definitely worth every p-" Warm lips pressed against his own, soft yet insistent, and a hand curled around his neck to draw him in closer. She hummed into his mouth, and a charge leapt between them. He opened his eyes and found her looking back. "I could stare at your eyes for hours." The romanticism of his words caught him off-guard, and she must have seen the surprise flash briefly across his face, because she took the wine from his hand and smiled.

"Charming and romantic. If only I could afford to ply you with $3000 bottles of wine all the time."

He leaned into her and whispered, "I can be had for much less, believe me."

This brought another laugh, and he joined in. "If you give me a ride home, I _might_ have beer in the fridge. I make no promises." She stood gingerly, mindful of her injury. "You _can_ drive manual, right?" He smirked and she halted him with her good arm. "No. No double entendres about stick shifts or getting my engine running." His hang dog face did little to change her mind. "No." Bending for her shoes, she gestured to the bottle. "Might as well bring the wine; the deed's been done. Besides, I'm curious what else it might pry loose from your mouth."

"Why do you get to make the double entendres and I don't?" he halfheartedly complained as he stood.

"Are you coming or not?" She held up a hand again. "No."

He smirked and slipped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "I was always more about action than words anyway."

...

-end


End file.
